Claiming Redemption
by A Born Legend Maker
Summary: They all expected him to save them. They all wanted him to be strong. It was all for them. But who's there to catch the saviour when he starts to fall? Who's there to be strong when the saviour's lost all hope? Some questions are better left unaswered...


**Claiming Redemption  
by: Wareta Shooki**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the newest characters (whose names will appear later) and the various plot lines this story shall follow. Read it here and now, I shall not repeat these words later. **

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They all stared at him expectantly, like they knew he came here for a reason. He just glared at them, quite content to sit in his current position (his legs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them loosely, his chin on his knees) and watch the poor misguided fools around him be dragged to the stage to be tortured, degraded in the most humiliating ways possible, and then killed. At that thought he almost snorted. How pathetically stupid the world had become. It made him sick at times to think that the world that surrounded him, so redundant and unworthy of his pity or concern for that matter, demanded he save them from their own hell. How odd and yet so utterly fascinating that he often found himself pondering over it late at night when sleep failed him.

And he just stared right back at them as if they didn't matter to him. Men in black capes and white masks that were contorted into the faces seen only in one's nightmares surrounded him. Cold laughter that would have made Lucifer run and hide in the darkest reaches of his lowly, fire-ridden kingdom made his skin crawl in ways he never knew were possible. One by one he watched them all die, one by one he just stared impassively, no longer caring. When Draco Malfoy was brought up to that gruesome, blood and gore covered stage something inside him giggled maliciously. Didn't he know by now that screaming and kicking and cursing got him nowhere? When they put him in the middle of the stage, chaining his arms above his head and stripping away his clothing, Harry felt himself compelled to move. For over four hours he'd sat in that same position, never moving, never feeling. But now, he did move, now he did feel.

It was rather annoying really.

Moving deftly towards that stage he watched as the Death Eaters that had tied that pale body to the already bloodied chains and stripped him bare backed away to allow him perfect access. Had this been any other time, he would have thought this odd. They listened only to Voldemort and never to him. Not that he cared much. He was as much as pawn in the bastard's sick, twisted game as they. But that didn't matter just then. Nothing mattered but the fear in those pale silver-blue-grey eyes that reminded him of a perfectly clear winter sky when a few streaks of stubborn blue shined through the grey as the cold sun tried to light up the world. The failure that rolled off the blonde before him made his mouth grow dry as he fought not to gag at the taste it left there.

Before he even thought about it, a thin, too pale hand darted out and grabbed his chin, half-covering his mouth as he was about to speak. He watched as the blonde struggled to speak around his hand, as he tried to bite him, lick him, anything to move that hand away so he could beg for the mercy that would never come to him. His chuckle was mirthless and upon hearing it the blonde ceased moving, eyes impossibly wide and staring at him. That fear belied the hatred and disgust that lay just beyond those impenetrable depths. Oh, but how swiftly Draco Malfoy would learn that those depths, so guarded, so protected could be penetrated in ways no-one ever imagined. His smirk was deadly.

"Are you going to cry, whore?" He hissed, recalling the words the blonde had spoken to him that night when he finally broke, when everything came and went in a tidal wave that left him breathless and begging for mercy on the floor of a cold, abandoned Hogwarts classroom somewhere in the heart of the castle where no-one would hear him screaming for help. His eyes, empty and haunted and dark, narrowed as anger filled him to boiling measures and he felt a hatred so strong that it left him breathless and almost panting well up from his very core. "You might as well, because I'm going to rip you to pieces… slowly, from the inside so you can know exactly what it felt like that night…."

Draco gasped and struggled harder to get away. So he remembered did he? Shaking his head so the hood he wore fell from his face, revealing it, Draco's face grew paler and his struggles increased in force. When the other clamped hard down on his hand, for its grip had slackened, he hissed and jerked it back only to backhand the blonde sharply across the face. The blonde spit at his feet, eyes twinkling with a dark mirth and a loathing love that made him want to vomit. How stupid could someone be?

"You're pathetic and disgusting! How could you work for him! How!" He screamed at him and he wanted nothing more than to make him shut up. But as he made to plunged his hand through the blonde's exposed chest his arm burned and he fell to his knees, a strangled cry falling past his lips. That burning abated before coming back a second time, this one stronger than the first time. The burning sensation escalated throughout his entire body, leaving him writhing and screaming on the ground. He'd have taken the Cruciatus Curse over this a thousand times.

He sat up suddenly in bed, soaking wet from sweat and panting hard and fast. His throat was throbbing from his screaming and he lifted a shaking hand to touch his bare chest and felt something sticky and warm brush against his flesh. Eyes widening he moved his hand so he could see it in the dim moonlight that shone through the window beside his bed. Blood dripped lazily from his hand, flakes of burned flesh, charred and blackened beyond measure, fell with those droplets and his eyes grew impossibly wider as he let out a blood curling scream at the same time that his arm started burning again. Looking at his arm he saw on the only patch of unmarred skin was a single mark, dark and gruesome; a skull with a snake flowing from its mouth.

When he stopped screaming his door flew open and Ron and Hermione rushed in. Looking up at them, his eyes wide but empty and distant and so impeccably dark, he left his mouth open in that silent scream, the only sign of emotion coming from him was the waves of hatred, pain, and fear that rippled off his very being, he felt oddly content. They stared at his eyes, catching that flicker of emotion in them before catching sight of his arm and the marking and the blood.

Hermione ran out of the room screaming for Mrs. Weasley and Remus Lupin and other names he didn't quite catch. It all began to fade as he collapsed back onto his pillow….

Emerald eyes shot open suddenly and focused instantaneously on the velvet red curtains of his four-poster bed. His breathing was laboured but not loud enough to have woken his friends. They'd learned early on that waking him from a nightmare could be potentially dangerous and had long ago learned to ignore his panting, mumbling and thrashing about on the bed, tangled in sheets that felt like chains. Rolling onto his side, right hand clutching his left forearm just below the bend of his elbow, he sighed deeply, bringing his legs to his chest as he calmed his breathing and heartbeat. When that was done, he slowly drew back his bed-hangings and dressed, slipping his glasses on and leaving his wand on the bedside table. He didn't need it anyway, for such were the wonders of wandless magick.

Trudging down the stairs to the common room, he shuffled over to one of the plush armchairs in front of the fire and sat in it, bringing his legs to his chest, chin on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs as his hands rested almost lazily upon his feet. His arm was still burning, but he ignored it for now. Maybe the Dark Lord would understand? Maybe not…. Who cared anymore?

When only the silence answered him, he sighed.

It was going to be one hell of a long year.

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Fin for Chapter 1 (?) of Claiming Redemption**

**Ending Babble: This story hit me suddenly. Yes, there's angst, yes there's possibly some sick form of romance later on, I'm not sure, and yes, Harry has the dark mark and quite possibly on the dark side solely to spy on Voldemort or simply because he's sick of being the Golden Boy? Hmm… let me know if you, my dear readers, believe this rubbish of a story should be continued or left as a one shot… **

"**We only know what the darkness really is when we look at ourselves from another's perspective." -Wareta Shooki **


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